


At Eleven, the World Begins at the Very End

by tryslora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Kid Fic, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-20 01:05:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2409449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, Jackson was orphaned and alone. When he finds Stiles in the wreckage of a car, he only knows that he has to take care of him because he <i>understands</i>. The fact that Stiles is only six, and Jackson is only eleven, doesn't matter at all. Jackson will do anything he has to in order to save the other boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Eleven, the World Begins at the Very End

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for cosmic-disillusion on tumblr, for the prompt of:
>
>> At age eleven, born wolf Jackson Whittemore meets his soulmate: an orphaned, injured, and dying human boy of six years named Stiles Stilinski. He immediately takes the boy under his wing, as he knows how hard it is to be all alone at such a fragile age (even though he has a pack now), and nurses him back to health. When his pack catches scent of the boy, they want to kill the intruder, but Jackson refuses to give his boy up. Slightly feral, protective & possessive Jackson, docile/hurt Stiles?
> 
> Thanks for the prompt, hon! I ended up with so much head-canon for this, all about Jackson's pack, and his family, and Beacon Hills, and Stiles's family. Someday I'd love to write a sequel (after I'm done with all the holiday exchanges I'm writing for right now!). And of course, as always, I do not own the world nor characters of Teen Wolf, I just like to play with them. 

~ 11,6,13 ~

 

Jackson isn’t supposed to be out this far. Not alone, not on the edges of human territory, not flirting with being seen. Wolves have their own space, and it’s _safe_. The world of humans is uncertain and angry, fearful of what they do not know. He’s heard _stories_ , ones that make your body shiver and your tail curl up and fluff out all at the same time.

He’s _seen_ how true they are. Humans are terrifying _beasts_ with no rules, at least not where wolves are concerned.

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be running through the woods just along the human road, close enough that he can hear the distant sound of cars.

But there’s something. There’s _something_. He’s been tracking it for hours, since it was a faint itch on the back of his neck and a whiff of something odd in the air. With every step the scent grows stronger, invades his senses like the headiest memories of rich, thick hot chocolate. He wants it, whatever it is. He needs to find it, and if he doesn’t, he’s sure he’ll explode. Or implode. He’s not actually sure which is the right word, but either way it would be messy and a would take a long time to heal, if he ever could.

He catches the scent of something else as well, rust and burning, and the acrid odor of fresh death. It permeates the air around the place he seeks, so he moves cautiously, concerned that whatever caused that death might be waiting for him.

When he gets close enough, he hears the cries. Low and soft, wistful and wanting. They twist in his gut with the piteous sound of a child in need, and he creeps forward, sneaking up on the twisted glut of metal that used to be a car.

There’s something alive in there, with the scent of death. And that something is what Jackson needs to find.

He peers in the window, sees the boy hanging upside-down in the seat belt, moving slightly. There are two others in the car, but they are still and silent, no heartbeat for Jackson to hear.

They smell like the boy’s family: probably his parents, and they are dead.

Jackson takes an involuntary step back, remembering in the vivid way that usually comes with nightmares. The car, the brutal crash, the way his human father was thrown and his mother killed before she could heal. He remembers being left alone, terrified and waiting for someone else to find him, and praying it wouldn’t be one of the hunters who shot their tires out, forcing the car off the road.

_This isn’t then._

Jackson is five years past that now. He’s _eleven_ and he’s almost an _adult_.

(Maybe adulthood is seven years away, but that’s not long, and werewolves mature quickly. Everyone knows that.)

He needs to be strong now, to rescue this child who smells strangely like home. He can’t leave him here, can’t rip his own heart out by walking away.

Jackson breathes in slowly, grips the edge of the door. He lets the wolf come to the forefront and growls loudly as he rips the metal away, eyes flashing bright.

The boy whimpers, and Jackson forces the wolf away.

“It’s okay,” he says softly. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to help, okay? You’re human, right? You smell human. I’m not going to eat you, or anything like that. I just want to get you out.”

He can smell blood and fear, and the sharp scent of urine. The boy is a mess, and he isn’t sure how badly injured he is. Maybe he should go get help.

He can’t go get help. The boy is _human_ and his pack would hurt him for that alone.

Jackson bites his lip and reaches for the seatbelt. “I need you to hold on to me,” he whispers, waits while the boy winds his arms upside down around Jackson’s neck. Then he tugs the belt loose, trying to catch the boy when he falls.

They tumble to the ground in a tangle, the boy crying out in pain. Jackson smells the injury with a fresh wash of blood and something worse, something that twists tight in his gut because _this boy could die_. He can’t let that happen. He _can’t_.

“Mommmy. Daddy.”

They are the first words the boy speaks, and Jackson’s heart breaks. He swallows hard. “They’re dead. I’m sorry.”

He isn’t ready for the way the boy cries. He isn’t ready for the way the boy wraps his arms around Jackson, burrowing in close, pressing his nose to his chest like he’s a wolf seeking scent. The boy shudders with the strength of his sobs, and Jackson can’t do anything but hold him as carefully as he can, not wanting to hurt him anymore. He whispers _shh shh_ , like he barely remembers his mother doing when he was young.

The pack doesn’t do that. Wolves are _strong_ , not weak like humans.

“We need to go someplace safe,” Jackson murmurs. He lifts the boy easily, tries not to wince at the cry of pain. “It’s not too cold today, but it’s going to get cold fast when the sun goes down. You need to be warm then. You need to heal.”

“It _hurts_ ,” the boy whispers.

“I know.” Jackson can feel the pain radiating from him in waves, a slow roll that digs beneath his skin. He flattens one hand against his arm, tries to take it away and it makes him stumble, almost losing his hold. It slows his progress, carrying the boy and taking his pain at the same time, and the world suddenly looks far too bright through the haze of Jackson’s sudden exhaustion.

He manages to make it to his favorite cave, and he lowers the boy to the ground. “I’m Jackson,” he says, crouching next to him. “I’m going to make sure you stay alive.”

“Stiles,” the boy offers quietly, pushing at the tears and snot on his face, moving them around more than cleaning anything.

Jackson snorts. “What kind of a name is _Stiles_?”

The boy bristles. “ _Mine_.”

Jackson likes that, the way it feels as if Stiles would growl if he could, would bare his teeth and stare down a wolf. It makes his own wolf coil comfortably beneath his skin, protective and happy. He sucks in a breath, tries to figure out how to proceed.

“I need to heal you,” he says again. “And I need to keep you warm.” He doesn’t say that he’s never done something like this before, that he’s not even sure he _can_. But there was no one to do this for _him_ when he was hurt. There was no one until he had _pack_ and Stiles… Stiles will never have pack. He might have cold hospitals and needles, but if he has that, those people might also kill Jackson.

No, this is for Jackson to do. Stiles is his to heal.

He sheds his clothes without embarrassment, dropping to all fours and shaking his head, arching his back. He lets the wolf roll through him, claws digging into the dirt floor and teeth filling his mouth. He hears the sharp hiss from Stiles, and he looks up, knowing his eyes glow yellow. “I won’t hurt you,” he says, words muffled by teeth. “I promise. I won’t hurt you, and I won’t let anyone else hurt you.”

Stiles creeps closer, reaching out with one small hand. He touches Jackson’s face, reached out to graze fingertips over the tops of his ears, then risks putting a finger near his teeth. Through it all, Jackson stays where he is, absolutely rigidly still. It seems to satisfy the younger boy, who sits back and nods his head, as if granting permission for Jackson to continue.

As if Jackson knows _how_ to continue. This is the part he’s never done, never given in to his wolf like this. The pack doesn’t think he can. They think he’s hobbled by his father’s human blood thrumming in his veins, but Jackson knows better. He knows he is _all wolf_. He knows he can do this, and with every breath, he takes in the scent of Stiles and it settles his wolf, calms him and it _helps_. 

He breathes in and exhales his humanity, bones cracking and rearranging in ways they have never done before. He cries out with the unexpected pain of it, body twisting as he reforms, dropping to the ground. By the time Stiles reaches his side, Jackson is all wolf, panting and trying to regain some sense of focus.

“Wow,” Stiles whispers, fingers threading in Jackson’s ruff, petting him like a dog.

_As if_ he is only as good as a _dog_.

He whuffs, soft and low, pausing after to marvel at the sound of his own voice. He’s never heard this, never _been_ this. He whuffs again, louder this time as he noses closer to Stiles, pushing him back. He can’t give instructions anymore, can’t be the _adult_ , so he has to try to get his point across like this.

He nudges until Stiles backs up to the wall, fingers tangling in the fur around Jackson’s neck as Stiles collapses there. Like this, Jackson’s sense of smell is stronger. He sniffs in close, seeks the places where Stiles _hurts_ and he licks there, lapping at his skin like his saliva can heal. He feels the pain draw out, seeping under his own bones, hears the boy sigh with relief.

Maybe he _can_ heal like this. Maybe he can just _be_ and _help_.

They end up tangled around each other, Stiles holding onto Jackson as if he were both stuffed bear and pillow. Jackson keeps trying to tug the pain from Stiles, pushes back something that feels _good_ and _healed_ and he prays that it helps because something needs to.

As they drift into sleep, Jackson feels more at ease than he can remember being since that first car crash stole his small pack away from him.

 

~ 11,6,14 ~

 

Jackson wakes to the sound of a soft voice talking and fingers carding through the hair behind his ears, digging in just enough to feel good. He leans into it, makes a low rumbling noise of pleasure in the back of his throat, and just _listens_.

“…Going to Disneyland.” Stiles’s voice is sleeping, his body still lax and almost still. Jackson rumbles curiously, wondering what he missed before now, and Stiles stops petting him, just for a moment, like he’s just realized that Jackson is awake. He takes a soft breath, lets it out, then starts talking again.

“My name is—” He says something that is simply a jumble of noise to Jackson, nothing he can even identify as a potential name. Jackson whines softly, and Stiles laughs and repeats the sound, following it with, “Claude Stilinski. But everyone just calls me Stiles because no one can pronounce my name except my… except my…” He hiccups. “Except my mommy and daddy. We woke up and they said _let’s go to Disneyland_ so we got in the car and we were going there and then there was a big bang and you found me.” He buries his face in Jackson’s fur. “I live in Beacon Hills and I don’t know how I’m going to get home.”

Jackson doesn’t know _where_ Beacons Hills is, or where Disneyland is, but he’s heard of them. He remembers Mickey Mouse from when he lived among the humans, playing a role with his mother to keep his father safe. And he remembers Beacon Hills, spoken in whispers by his pack, a place where they could _never_ go because the alpha is so fierce and violent that they would be put to death immediately for encroaching on her territory.

He doesn’t know how to get Stiles home either, and he whimpers piteously at that, because he would do whatever he has to do to make Stiles happy. Except that. He doesn’t think he can do that.

“I’m six years old. Almost seven. I’ll be seven in three weeks and four days.” Stiles’s voice is soft and almost singsong, as if he’s said these things so many times before. “I’m scared, Jackson. I’m so scared. Are you going to eat me? Werewolves eat humans, that’s what my daddy says. My mommy, she says those are just stories, that sometimes werewolves and humans are friends. And sometimes there are humans in werewolf packs. But maybe that’s just our pack and maybe you’re keeping me here until you’re hungry and then you’ll eat me right down and I’ll be gone, just like mommy and daddy.” He hiccups again, and Jackson feels the way his body shudders with tears. Wet drops fall onto Jackson’s muzzle, and he leans up to lick them away, surprised that Stiles leans into him rather than pulling away at the sight of Jackson’s teeth.

“I don’t think you’re going to eat me. I trust you,” Stiles whispers. “I don’t know why, but I do.”

_You’re hurt_ , Jackson wants to say. _You’re hurt, and I need to fix you. We need to stay here until you’re okay_.

Instead of being able to say anything, he simply barks and nuzzles close, trying to convince Stiles to stay. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to want to move, and they both lie there, drifting in and out of sleep, while Jackson prays that Stiles heals.

~ 11,6,14 ~

 

Jackson hears the howl of his pack on the hunt long before Stiles does. He sits up, stiff and wary, nudging at Stiles to untangle himself from the small boy. He shifts back to himself, the process achingly slow and painful, his body stiff and unfamiliar after even a day as a wolf. “I have to go for just a minute,” he says to Stiles as he pulls on his clothes. “You’ll be safe here, I promise. I just need you to stay. Here. Please. Just stay right here.”

“Okay,” Stiles agrees, although Jackson can see the light of curiosity in his eyes. He bares his teeth, almost growls, and Stiles makes a face. “I will. I promise,” he mutters, and with that Jackson feels as if he can leave him.

He runs out, circling around to come up behind the members of his pack, howling his presence. Will—his alpha—reaches out, cuffing him at the nape of the neck, hauling him in with a low bark. Jackson drops his gaze, knowing he did wrong by running off on his own. If submitting to his alpha keeps them from finding Stiles, he’ll do whatever it takes.

“Where have you been?” His alpha growls, snarls around sharp teeth that he bares and snaps at Jackson. “This is _human_ land.”

“I wanted to run.” At his alpha’s growl, Jackson raises his gaze, meeting red eyes with bright gold. He lifts his lip, showing his own canines. “I just wanted to _run_.”

“Of course he came to the human lands, Will.” Blake crouches to one side, blue eyes bright when he smirks. “Half-breed, can’t stay away. He even _smells_ human.”

Will’s claws dig into Jackson’s skin as he hauls him closer, burying his face in his throat. The growl grows louder, and Jackson reacts, his own snarl rumbling low in his throat, vibrating through his entire body before it erupts in a show of teeth. When Will drops him, Jackson scuttles back, crouching low, ears pricked and teeth bared, his claws flexed as he touches the ground.

“Where is he?” Will hisses. “Where is the human boy?”

“He doesn’t mean anything to you,” Jackson growls back, muffled by the teeth filling his mouth. “He’s _mine_.”

“It sounds as if he means something to our Jackson,” Blake says idly. “So he found a toy. Let him keep him. He’ll learn how to play with humans properly.”

Jackson knows what Blake means, and it isn’t pretty. Stiles would never survive. He flashes his eyes, takes a step toward Blake, mouth full of sharp teeth, and he doesn’t back down, even when Will laughs. He hears the murmur from the rest of the pack, spins around when someone else moves like they would offer challenge.

“He’s _mine_ ,” he says again. “Leave him _alone_.”

“We took you in,” Will says mildly. “Knowing what you were—knowing where you came from—we still took you in and we raised you in our pack. Would you protect this _human_ , who will grow up to _hunt_ , rather than be safe?”

“Yes.” Jackson doesn’t think about the  answer, just speaks quickly as he circles back, putting himself between the pack and the cave. He would protect Stiles with everything he has, and if it means fighting the pack who saved his life _he will_.

His alpha bares his teeth and a savage imitation of a smile. “You are banished, Jackson,” he says. “By this moment, you are no longer pack and declared omega. If we catch your scent after another day has passed, you will be hunted and destroyed like the half-breed that you are.”

Jackson swallows because all of a sudden, he is _alone_. But it’s okay, it has to be, because if he’s not then—

“There is one way we will take you back,” Will whispers. “Come home and bring us the human.”

Jackson roars, mouth open wide, sound echoing back at him from the trees. “Never.”

The pack turns as one, shifting to sprint into the woods and away.

Struck from the pack.

Omega.

Breath shudders in his chest, panic settling in and dropping him to his knees. He feels the thud, the scrape of the ground against his skin as his hands slide over leaves. He struggles to bring in breath, then there’s a hand on his shoulder, a worried voice saying, “Jackson?”

It’s okay. It’s going to be okay, because it has to be okay, because Stiles needs a pack. He’s human, but he’s alone, and he needs a pack and Jackson is the only pack he has. “I’m okay,” he whispers. He manages to get his feet under him properly, sits cross-legged on the ground and lets the younger boy curl up on his lap, burrowing close. He holds him and tries to comfort him, because everything just got so much harder.

But they’ll be safe, Jackson will make sure of it.

“We’re going to start walking soon,” he says quietly. “Do you think you can walk? We need to get away from my pack. They don’t like… they don’t like humans. And I’m half-human and you’re all human and it’s not safe here. So we’re leaving.”

“Isn’t your pack important to you?” Stiles’s eyes open wide, and it’s almost as if he gets it. As if he—as a human—understands what pack means to a wolf.

Jackson shakes his head. “Not anymore. You’ll be my pack, okay? And I’ll be yours. And we’re going to walk and we’re going to find a way back to Beacon Hills. Because that’s where you’re supposed to be. Okay?”

Stiles slips his hand into Jackson’s and nods once, his scent full of trust. “Okay.”

Jackson doesn’t know how far away Beacon Hills is, or how to go about getting there, but they’ll do their best. He trusts that someone like Stiles couldn’t have been where there is an evil alpha—his pack must be _wrong_ , like they’re wrong about humans. Besides, he can protect Stiles and take care of him. They’ll be just fine.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com)!


End file.
